


In Faded Spirits

by Meglos



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age II, Dragon Age: Inquisition, Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Gen, Post-Dragon Age: Inquisition Quest - Here Lies the Abyss, Purple Hawke (Dragon Age), Rogue Hawke (Dragon Age), The Fade
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-26
Updated: 2021-01-26
Packaged: 2021-03-18 20:27:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,879
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28998249
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Meglos/pseuds/Meglos
Summary: The letters burned in the sky.“FEN’HAREL VER MA DIRTHA’BANALLEN.”“What does it mean?” Wynne asked after a time.“I have no idea,” her companion replied cheerfully. “Merrill would only say it when she was really upset, though. So it must be something truly—“Dread Wolf take your...unmentionables?”came a new voice from behind them.--Wynne is no longer among the living, but neither is she dead in the way she might've expected. Wandering the Fade, she comes across something unexpected—a lone human, trapped, with nothing but a slightly morbid sense of humour to keep her company.Needless to say, the two hit it off like a Chantry on fire. And Wynne realizes there might just be a purpose for her lingering spirit after all...
Comments: 3
Kudos: 19





	1. Chapter 1

Wynne wandered the raw Fade.

She was dead, of course. She had been for some time. Or perhaps not long at all. It was next to impossible to measure such things here.

When she’d been alive, she’d heard many stories about what happened when one died. How your spirit passed into the Fade and you were reunited with all of the loved ones who’d gone before you. How the Maker greeted you and offered you a place at his side.

She had known, deep down, that most of these stories were pure fabrication. You didn’t grow to die at her age without developing a little cynicism about the unchallenged beliefs of your fellow humans.

What she hadn’t expected, though, was that being dead would be so _boring._

The Fade was vast, of course; full of wondrous marvels long forgotten in the real world. Wynne had seen things mortal scholars could only dream of—in a very literal sense.

But what she craved, above all else, was someone she could simply _talk_ to. She was an old woman, after all—it was practically her prerogative.

The other spirits were quite shy. Some even seemed intimidated by her. The demons, she avoided, of course—old habits tended to die hard, even when one was already dead. She occasionally saw humans and elves flitting in and out of this realm, carried along by their dreams, but they didn’t seem to notice her. Recently she’d even stumbled across what must’ve been a fellow Circle mage undertaking his Harrowing. He’d shouted at her, called her a demon, and flailed around with his magic until she’d left, realizing that he probably wasn’t going to be receptive to pointers about his technique.

And so Wynne was now exploring a wilder, unformed part of the Fade. Jagged spires of some dark substance jutted out from the rocky terrain, reflecting the light that came from the clusters of blue-green crystal scattered around. If she’d still been alive, this place would certainly have had her on her guard. But as she was no longer particularly concerned about anything, she barely noticed the crawling, grotesque creature until it skittered straight through her ghostly feet. She jumped, even though it had not done her any harm.

Then a dagger whipped through the air, slicing it in two with an unpleasant _squish_.

“Typical,” came a voice. “Needle them a bit and they just go to pieces.”

A woman strode towards the fallen demonling, a half-smile on her face and a half-empty bottle in her hand. She yanked her dagger free and stared at the thing as it deformed into a small puddle of black ooze. “And just _look_ at how they melt under pressure.”

Wynne chuckled and the young woman tensed, sweeping the area with a practiced gaze before finally noticing the spirit standing just before her.

“So one of you has a sense of humour,” she said. “That’s new.”

“Says the woman who seems to be neither dead nor dreaming,” Wynne replied. “Might I have the pleasure?”

The woman took a drink. “Hawke,” she said. “And you?”

“Someone who can’t seem to move forward through the stages of existence without dragging her heels. A terrible habit one develops when one gets old. But you might call me Wynne.”

Hawke gave her a long look. “You _do_ seem an awful lot like an old woman,” she noted. “Most spirits I’ve seen are a lot more...” she made a vague gesture with her arms. “Floaty.”

Wynne chuckled. “Most of us don’t go around thinking that we’re the departed soul of a former Archmage of the College of Enchanters. I’m afraid I’m rather unique in that regard.”

“Well, so long as you aren’t thinking about trying to possess me, I’m sure we’ll get along fine.” Hawke took another long swig and held the bottle up, glaring at it. “Drink?”

Wynne peered at the label. Sun Blonde Vint-1. “I’m afraid it would be wasted on me,” she said, somewhat wistfully. “Though I often wonder how such a thing might taste in the Fade.”

“Exactly how I remember it.” With a sudden movement, the woman turned and flung the bottle unerringly toward the nearest rock wall, where it shattered in a crystalline burst. “Which is to say, not at all like it should.”

She stared at the shards of glass for a moment, as if hypnotized. Then she abruptly walked off in the other direction.

“You can come along if you make yourself useful,” she called back.

“And how might I do that?”

Hawke smiled in an almost predatory way. “By helping me get out of this blighted place.”

\--

“That’s it. Focus. _Extend_ your will, don’t force it.”

Hawke grunted, panting with effort. “You’re the mage. Why can’t you help?”

Wynne shook her head sadly. “I’m but a memory. A thinking, talking memory that should probably move on if she knows what’s good for her, but a memory nonetheless.”

The two of them had stuck with each other for some time. Though the young woman’s mood often teetered dramatically between a charming kind of wit and a bitter, sometimes vicious surliness, helping her come up with each new daring and improbable method by which to escape was infinitely more interesting than visiting yet another ancient, forgotten ruin.

It _almost_ made her feel alive again.

Hawke finished her work and stood back, satisfied.

“Very striking,” said Wynne. “But—what’s that blobby shape at the end?”

“That’s a picture of his face,” Hawke said seriously. “So that he’ll know the message is for him.”

The bulbous form, carved from the raw material of the Fade and now floating up in the shimmering veridium sky, looked alarmingly like genitalia. It punctuated a short Elven phrase, a couple words of which Wynne thought she recognized. The whole thing hung far above their heads, visible for miles around—if such distances even existed in this place.

“You know, I think I’m rather good at this,” Hawke said, surveying her handiwork. “I could start making carvings. Open up a shop. How much do you think spirits around here would pay for a bust of the Divine?”

Wynne couldn’t help but smile. “I do feel it could use a little something more.”

She closed her eyes and stretched out her hands. Magic was different here in the Fade. Or perhaps it was different because she was dead. She no longer had to reach inside herself for that still pool of mana, drawing on her own essence to make her will come to life. Instead, she simply stretched that will gently towards the towering letters.

With a subtle _whoosh_ , they burst into flames.

Hawke raised an eyebrow. “Decided to help as soon as the real work was done?”

Wynne chuckled. “Shaping the raw material of the Fade is one thing. But I’ve had close to a century of experience lighting things on fire.”

The letters burned in the sky. “ _FEN’HAREL VER MA DIRTHA’BANALLEN.”_

“What does it mean?” Wynne asked after a time.

“I have no idea,” her companion replied cheerfully. “Merrill would only say it when she was _really_ upset, though. So it must be something truly—

“Dread Wolf take your... _unmentionables?_ ” came a new voice from behind them.

The flames sputtered out as the two women turned, and Wynne stared in confusion at the young man standing there.

“Hawke.” His pale face relaxed into a hesitant smile. “I should’ve known.”

The boy was tall and slender, his fair hair offsetting the deep blue and silver Tevinter-styled robes he wore. He also held a delicate silverite staff in one hand—a mage, evidently.

 _“Feynriel?”_ Hawke said, her surprise giving way to a wide grin. “Is that you?”

Wynne cleared her throat. “I thought the one we were looking for was an elf?”

“Well—yes,” Hawke said. “I mean, no. _This_ is Feynriel. I saved his life back in Kirkwall. More than once, in fact. But he hasn’t written me in _ages._ ” She frowned. “That happens a lot, come to think of it.”

“Because you never write back,” Feynriel pointed out.

“Busy life, on the run,” Hawke said smoothly. “Plus I always seem to be running out of pens. You know how hard it is to find good pens?”

Feynriel cleared his throat and glanced at Wynne. “Interesting company you keep.”

Wynne chuckled. “Oh, don’t mind me. I’m just an old woman too stubborn to let go. And I’m only here to help this young lady however I can.”

Feynriel frowned up at the letters in the sky. “Of course I’ll help. I owe you that much, Hawke. But we shouldn’t stay here. This little display will only draw unwanted attention.”

Hawke sighed. “If only I could think of some way to charge them an admission fee.”

The young mage turned and gestured at the formless rock-face behind them. A rough stone arch seemed to melt into existence, and one by one, they stepped through.

\--

The fluid shapes of the raw Fade gave way to geometric stone blocks forming high-walled, narrow alleyways. Though Wynne had never been to the place while she was alive, she had a feeling that this must be Kirkwall’s Lowtown. Indeed, Hawke walked ahead of her with the confident, easy stride that spoke of years spent navigating these bewildering passages in the real world.

Feynriel, walking abreast of his old acquaintance, listened to the tale of how she’d ended up here with genuine interest.

“You faced down the _Nightmare demon?_ ” he asked incredulously. “How in Andraste’s name are you still alive?”

Hawke smiled. “I’m the Champion of Kirkwall herself. Did you think I wouldn’t have a few tricks up my sleeve?”

The mage looked at her sideways. “Really, though.”

Hawke sighed. “Okay, so I ran away. I’m also very good at that.”

The twisting street they’d been following emptied into a large clearing amidst the run-down stone houses. At the centre of this area, dwarfed by towering buildings on all sides, stood a thick, gnarled, and extremely dead tree.

Feynriel stopped abruptly, almost causing Wynne to walk straight through him.

“Oh, shit,” muttered Hawke. “Did I do that? Sorry.”

The young man shook his head. “It’s fine. Just—haven’t thought about this place in years. Seems like you remember it better than I ever could.”

Hawke gazed up at the imposing buildings, something distant in her face. “That’s what I hate about this place,” she said quietly. “It’s all just memories.”

Wynne got the feeling she wasn’t only referring to the Alienage. 

Hawke led them to a tiny, cramped hovel in the corner of the square. It was empty, as most places in the Fade often appeared to be, but a small fire was crackling merrily in the hearth when they came in. A pot of tea seemed to be brewing on the stove.

“She always would go out of her way for visitors,” Hawke murmured, helping herself to a cup before sitting down at the rickety table and gesturing at the others to do the same.

Feynriel sat facing the two of them. “Would this be a good time to ask why you decided to inscribe an Elven curse into the sky?”

“We were hoping to draw the attention of an acquaintance of mine,” Hawke said. “Bald, dresses like a Darktown beggar but thinks far too highly of himself to be anything like one. Ring any bells?”

Feynriel frowned. “I might’ve seen him in passing, come to think of it. Is he a dreamer too?”

“He made himself out like some kind of Fade enthusiast,” Hawke said, scowling into her cup. “At least, he was thrilled enough when we all got dropped in here. Maybe _he_ should’ve been the one to heroically stay behind.” She looked up at Feynriel. “ _You_ wouldn’t happen to know of a way out of here, would you?”

He hesitated. “Two years ago, I would’ve told you it was impossible. That whatever magic tore open the Veil and let you in had since sealed it shut for good.”

Hawke paled. “Two years? Maker...”

“But,” he continued, oblivious. “There have been new gateways opening up recently. Ancient elven constructs known as Eluvians.”

“Oh, right,” Hawke said. “Like the one back there, I suppose.”

 _“What?”_ Feynriel jumped up, following Hawke’s half-hearted gesture. Wynne stood too, to see what all the fuss was about.

In the back room of the tiny hovel an ornate frame, looking very out-of-place in its shabby surroundings, leaned up against the wall. Where glass should have been, though, Wynne could see only a translucent network of cracks, as if the thing had been frozen in time before the pieces could fall to the floor.

“It’s broken,” Feynriel said, dismayed.

“Um, yes.” Hawke had not bothered to get up. “I... may have even been the one who talked her into smashing it.”

Feynriel came back into the sitting room. “It wouldn’t matter if you didn’t know how to activate it. But if we can find one that works, you _might_ have a chance.”

Hawke snorted. “Well, that just edges out my original plan of stopping by every thin spot in the Veil and shouting really loudly to see if anyone would answer. I’m in.”

Wynne cleared her throat. “The Fade is a large place. Where might we even begin to look?”

Without a word, Feynriel walked to the door of the hovel, gesturing at them to follow.


	2. Chapter 2

The Alienage had changed in the brief time they’d been inside. Golden leaves now drifted lazily from the _Vhenadahl_ , which had sprung out in full bloom. The ornate patterns painted on its trunk seemed to glow softly in the warm afternoon light, and the whole area seemed somehow less run-down; less gloomy than it had before.

Feynriel had stopped just shy of the threshold. “Look closely,” he said. “Do you see them?”

It took a few moments for Wynne to understand what she was looking for. Spirits were numerous in the Fade, but they tended to keep away from things that made them nervous. Wynne had noticed very few of them the whole time she’d been in Hawke’s company.

But standing here, quietly observing, they began to flit around the corners of her vision once again. And she saw what the mage was trying to show them.

Hawke squinted. “Please tell me it’s a secret door in the big tree that’ll take me to a warm bath and a meal made of real food for a change.”

Wynne touched her on the shoulder. If she concentrated hard enough, she could almost feel the rough leather of the woman’s armour under her fingers.

“Look at the spirits,” she said, and perhaps it had taken someone who was one herself to point them out, because Hawke’s eyes suddenly widened.

“Where are they all going?”

“Where do all spirits _want_ to go?” Feynriel asked grimly, taking the lead. They passed through the Alienage, spirits flitting around them and speeding off ahead to join a steady trickle of the things all traveling in roughly the same direction.

“The real world, I expect,” Hawke said. “So they can wear our bodies like frilly pantaloons and dance the Allemande.”

Wynne chuckled. “Not all spirits want to possess people. Or even leave the Fade, you know.”

“You’re right,” Feynriel said without looking around. “They don’t all want to _go_ there. But most of them would like to have a peek, if given the chance.”

The trappings of the Lowtown streets faded away, replaced by bushes and small, scrubby trees as they followed the train of spirits. As elements of the raw Fade jutted into the landscape more frequently, the group found themselves walking up a gradually steepening incline.

“Sundermount,” Hawke said mirthlessly. “I should’ve known.”

They followed a winding path that the spirits around them had no need of but seemed to want to use anyway. It was difficult to tell at this point if the Fade was starting to look more like Sundermount, or if Sundermount just happened to look uncannily like the Fade. Wynne pointed this out to Hawke, who laughed at the observation more heartily than it probably deserved. Then the Champion of Kirkwall lapsed into a broody silence.

“Why you?” Hawke asked after a time.

“I’m sorry?” Wynne let herself drift forward until she was keeping pace with Hawke.

“Out of all the spirits I could’ve met here...”

“Why are you stuck with an old bat like me?”

Hawke grimaced. “I wouldn’t have put it _exactly_ like that.”

Wynne studied the woman’s face, already bearing lines far too deep for her age. “You were hoping to find someone else in here, weren’t you?”

Hawke kept her eyes fixed firmly on the path ahead. “My mother,” she whispered. “Carver... Dad. Where are they? Why can’t I find them?” Her voice quavered, just a little. “Wouldn’t they—wouldn’t they _want_ to see me?”

Wynne gave a sad smile. “While it’s true that a person’s spirit passes into the Fade when they die, it is not often that they linger here, as I have. Most likely they will have moved on, though to where, even I cannot say.”

“I know.” Hawke looked away. “I just—part of me hoped they’d... wait for me. It sounds silly, I suppose. Most of the things I thought I knew about the Fade aren’t even true.”

She looked painfully distant once again. Wynne wished she knew enough to comfort her.

“Strange as it may sound,” she finally said. “I died once—before I died properly the second time, I mean. And at that moment, I had no regrets. I believed I’d lived a full life; a happy enough one, and I’d gone out saving someone else’s. For me, that was enough.”

Wynne paused, as if to take a deep breath, before remembering that there was no need to do that anymore. “But then I came back. At first I was convinced that it must’ve been for a reason. I spent the rest of my life latching on to everything that came my way, so _sure_ that it would be the one thing that I was brought back to do. And when that moment finally came, it was so small, so simple, and so unexpected that I never could’ve guessed it was coming.”

Hawke’s mouth twitched. “If you’re about to tell me not to be afraid to leap—

“Let me finish, young lady. Those years following my first death turned out to be the best years of my life. And I realized what a fool I’d been before, thinking I was ready to go. Because sometimes the point of life is simply to live.”

Hawke’s smile was uncertain, but at least it was present, for a time.

A little farther up the path, and Feynriel came to a sudden halt.

“Trouble?” asked Hawke, drawing up beside him. “I had a sinking feeling we’d been too long without any.”

The path flattened out ahead into a wide clearing dotted with spindly trees and the shards of ancient ruins, their purpose long forgotten even by dwellers of the Fade. Save for those, the clearing was empty, but—

“Something’s not right,” said the dreamer. “Where did all the spirits go?”

“Look,” Hawke said.

A path on the other side of the clearing twisted around and led further up the mountain. Barely visible at the end of this path, something shone with a fierce, blue-white light.

The Eluvian.

“Careful,” Feynriel hissed, reaching for her arm. But Hawke had already stepped into the clearing.

A figure unfolded itself from the shadows of the dark stone ruins and walked toward them with a swaying, almost hypnotic grace.

“Welcome.” Its voice was like nails wrapped in silk.

“Out of our way, demon.” Feynriel leveled his staff at the thing.

The demon looked up at him with glittering azure eyes. It was humanoid, sporting vaguely masculine features upon its grey skin as well as dark hair that flowed and shifted disturbingly behind it. It flicked a finger at Feynriel and the mage flew backwards at the cliff-face, which melted and swallowed him up to his neck.

“Feynriel!” Hawke cried, starting towards him. The demon blocked her path.

“The little mage is unharmed,” it said. “It is you who is of interest to me, living one.”

Hawke drew her daggers. “You and everyone else, their mothers, and their greedy demon uncles. So what are you—Pride? Desire?”

The demon laughed a razorblade laugh. “I know your mind, human. I know what you want.”

Hawke did not move. “And I won’t have what you’re offering.”

“Do you not desire,” the demon gestured up the mountain path where the Eluvian shone dimly through the mist, “a way out?”

It snapped its fingers and the light winked out. “But an illusion, I’m afraid. The bait in the trap. And I hold the keys to your escape.”

Wynne had been sidling around the clearing as the demon spoke. It seemed to take no notice of her. She reached the place in the rock where Feynriel had been trapped. “Can you get yourself out?”

His head was the only thing not encased in Fade-material. “Yes, but it’ll take some time. Less if Hawke can weaken the demon—deny it what it wants.”

“Let me guess,” she was saying. “You want me to let you in. Then you’ll go gallivanting out of here in some heinous way that’ll leave my mind cracked wide open and my body free for you to parade around as you see fit.”

“You would be free of this place.” The demon cocked its head. “Unless, that is, you do _not_ wish to be free.”

Hawke sighed bitterly. “And here I thought I was actually getting close this time.”

Something seemed to drain from her, then. She lowered her daggers and began to laugh. It was a hollow, joyless sound.

“The joke’s on you, demon.” Her voice was flat, absent of its usual lilt. “There’s nothing you can tempt me with. I’ve already let it all go.”

Feynriel struggled beside Wynne. She placed her hands on the rock wall and tried to coax the Fade into bending just a little bit, but it was no use.

“Demon’s—stronger than I thought,” Feynriel muttered.

A cold wind had picked up and was creeping its way around the clearing. If Wynne had still been flesh and blood, she would have shivered. Hawke appeared not to notice.

“Two years,” she said. Wynne wasn’t sure if she was even talking to the demon anymore. “I suppose I might as well be dead to everyone. Maker only knows what staying in the Fade this long does to a person.”

The dark figure before her smiled, its long hair undulating in the breeze. Wynne could’ve sworn it was bigger than it had been moments before.

“Something’s wrong,” Feynriel grunted behind her and she looked around in horror to see that the mage had sunk _further_ into the cliff-face. The back of his head was completely encased, his face last to be consumed.

“The demon’s getting stronger, isn’t it?”

Feynriel’s expression confirmed her fear. “But—how?” he gasped. “It looked like—she was resisting—

He had barely enough time to take one last breath of air before the rock swallowed him up.

The wind was swirling faster. Tiny flecks of ice blew through Wynne’s form, sprinkling the ruins around them with a dusting of sparkling white.

Hawke had sunk to her knees, her skin deathly pale. “I mean, what have I been eating all this time? Can you even survive off of Fade-stuff? Maybe I really did die back there in the Nightmare, and I’m only a memory of myself who thinks she’s still a real person.”

And Wynne finally understood. “Hawke,” she said over the gale. “It’s a trick.”

Hawke looked around as if in a daze. She finally seemed to notice the change in her surroundings.

“It’s a trick,” Wynne repeated. _“It’s not a desire demon!”_

The demon looked straight at Wynne for the first time and _hissed_ , its eyes narrowing to inhuman slits. It pointed a finger and Wynne felt its power rip through her; tearing at her deep inside, at the tiny spark of consciousness that had convinced itself that it was the spirit of Archmage Wynne of the College of Enchanters—

Until even that faded away into blackness.


	3. Chapter 3

A flicker.

The thing that was once Wynne did not have eyes, but it felt as though it must have opened them.

It was lying on the ground—or was it? It did not have a body with which to do so.

It was cold. This was a relative fact based on qualities that did not affect it, and as such had no bearing on the situation. It dismissed the thought.

A human female was facing a demon nearby. This was _interesting._ It looked closer.

The human was on her feet, though something of a vague memory told it that she had been kneeling before. This was important, though it wasn’t sure why.

A stirring of recollection as the young woman spoke. “Now I understand,” she said. “ _Despair,_ not desire. Merrill would have a field day for me cocking this one up.”

 _Hawke._ That was the woman’s name. The demon grabbed her by the throat and lifted her up off the ground. It did not look very pleasant.

“Too late,” the demon murmured. “The depth of your pain will sustain me for a lifetime. What purpose is there in resistance when I have already won?”

“That’s where you’re wrong,” Hawke wheezed. “Someone reminded me very recently that there’s no point dwelling on what is or isn’t meant to be. That there’s always a reason to keep going, even if you don’t know what it is.”

The demon brought her in closer and tightened its grip. “You lie, sweet thing. I tasted the velvet truth of your despair. It is not something you can hide from me.”

“Maybe—not.” Hawke coughed. And smiled. “But hey—it was worth—a shot.”

Then her arm whipped up and sank a dagger to its hilt under the demon’s chin.

It shrieked, writhing away and dropping the woman. Then it _exploded_ outward, growing into something many-limbed and cloaked in icy fangs.

The spirit watching all of this wondered idly where all these preconceptions and metaphors were coming from.

Hawke scrambled to her feet, backing away from the creature. It whipped a limb towards her, slicing the air with razor fingers as she leapt deftly out of the way. She brandished her remaining dagger at the demon.

“You liked that, did you?” she shouted. “Wait ‘till you find out where I’m going to shove this one!”

The creature bared its pointed crystalline teeth and drew back for another swing.

Something burst from the cliff-face, sending shards of stone flying. It— _he—_ landed next to Hawke and pointed a long, shiny object at the demon. A bolt of flame shot forth, striking it square in the chest.

“Go on,” Feynriel said. “I’ve got this.”

Hawke looked up the mountain, where a faint rectangle of light could be seen glowing softly. She turned back to Feynriel, askance. “I’m just supposed to let you take all the credit for rescuing me?”

The mage fired another burst of flame at the demon and smiled. “You can tell this story however you like—once you get out. Now, go!”

Hawke squeezed his shoulder and grinned, very briefly. Then she ran.

The spirit realized that it must care about this young human female, somehow. So it drifted along, following Hawke as she bolted up the mountain path. Other spirits, which had been entirely absent from the demon’s lair, milled about on the path. As Hawke climbed, they scattered. The one in pursuit slipped among them easily.

What must once have been grave markers lined the clearing up ahead. Spirits clustered around the ponderous stones, sometimes disappearing; slipping through the cracks in this place where the Veil was threadbare.

Towards the far side of the ridge jutting out over Sundermount’s craggy depths, the throng of them simply stopped, as if held back by an invisible wall. The one following Hawke pressed forward as far as it could, until it had a view of the empty area. At its centre on a dais of stone stood a shining mirror, glowing faintly with an inner light.

The elf stood just to the side of it, staring off at something far up in the sky.

“ _Fen’Harel ver ma dirtha’banal’en_ ,” he murmured, giving the words an unexpected lilt. “An interesting choice of phrase. Do you know what it means?”

Hawke, who had skidded to a halt, stared at the other occupant of the clearing for a long moment. Then she gave him a quick, effortless smile. “Something to do with the Dread Wolf relieving you of your undergarments, if I recall.”

The elf turned. His expression was not entirely readable, though it almost certainly wasn’t a smile. He bore no weapons, but there was an aura about him that could only mean he was a mage. He wore some kind of thick fur and gilt half-plate over a deep green robe that offset the Fade-colour of the sky quite nicely—

Where were all these ideas coming from? Spirits did _not_ have opinions on _colour palettes_.

“I take it back,” Hawke said, looking him over. “You don’t dress like a Darktown beggar anymore. Though strapping what appears to be an entire dog to your chest is certainly a... choice.”

“Language is a strange beast,” the bald mage went on as though Hawke had not spoken. “There was a time, so long ago, when it meant something different.” He shook his head. “Trust the Dalish to turn it into a mockery.”

Hawke made as if to move towards the mirror, and then hesitated. Perhaps she had seen something in the elf’s eyes that had given her pause, for her smile froze upon her face. “Look, ah—Solas. We never talked much in the short time we knew each other, and while I would _love_ to remedy that, I can think of a dozen places I’d rather catch up in—the dragon nest in the Bone Pit, for one.”

Solas smiled, though it did not reach his eyes. “I’ve had many an interesting conversation bathed in the light of an Eluvian. But if you’d prefer to keep this brief,” he snapped his fingers and the light in the tall mirror suddenly winked out. “It’s not in my interest to allow you to leave.”

Hawke blinked, her mouth agape. And then laughed. “Oh, Maker. Don’t tell me—you’ve gone _evil,_ haven’t you?”

A tiny frown creased the elf’s brow, but Hawke went on. “I am from _Kirkwall_ , you know. I’ve had a lot of practice recognizing it.”

“I have been called by many names, fair few of which are pleasant ones,” Solas conceded. “If that’s to be my burden, then so be it. For me to do what must be done, chaos must be kept at bay. And you, Hawke, are among those who would bring it. Far more prudent it may be to keep you safely here where you are not a threat.” He tilted his head, almost sadly. “Wouldn’t you agree?”

Hawke looked momentarily like she had back in the clutches of the despair demon, her face drained of colour, her fingers slackening on her weapon. Then she looked up to the emerald sky and something changed. A smile started to creep its way back onto her face, taking on an almost feral quality. “Do you like the Fade, Solas?” she asked innocently. “As much as you like the real world, I mean.”

The elf looked implacable, but Hawke must’ve caught some momentary flicker in his expression, for she pressed on. “I don’t care for it much, personally. But it does have its perks. It allowed me to discover my hidden talent for sculpting, and helped me realize my true calling as a burgeoning artist.” She folded her arms and smiled up at the elven phrase. “I’m thinking, for my next great work: ‘ _fenhedis’_ in big letters right above this very spot. After that, who knows? There are a lot of very simple drawings I learned from Isabela that shouldn’t be too hard to... pull off.”

Solas’s eyes glittered dangerously for a moment, and then the elf’s face slid into an expression that stirred vague memories in the watching spirit. A particular blend of tiredness and exasperation that precluded resignation in the face of insurmountable odds—such as a hot-headed young apprentice, or in this case, the Champion of Kirkwall. It was not sure where this comparison had sprung from, but it felt an unexpected stirring not unlike sympathy toward the elven mage.

“I suppose the phrase is quite fitting after all,” he finally said. “The Elvhen rebels used to cry it as a sign of their defiance to the masters that they had escaped from. The true translation was, of course, ‘Dread Wolf take your empty threats,’ not knowing if those threats were truly empty.”

He gave Hawke what appeared to be a long, suffering look. Then he waved a hand at the Eluvian, which shimmered and melted into the glowing surface it had been before.

“It’s been a pleasure,” Solas said, turning away. “You should go now. Before I think of a reason to change my mind.”

He walked past Hawke and through the throng of spirits, which parted before him in a narrow line.

Hawke stared after him, mouth agape. Then she shrugged and approached the mirror, touching a tentative finger to its surface. A ripple spread across it as if it were a still pool instead of glass, and she withdrew her hand, hesitating.

“Wynne?” she asked, looking around. “Are you still there?”

The thing that had once known itself to be Wynne pressed at the invisible barrier, wanting this woman to know it was, but not fully understanding why.

“I saw the demon get you,” Hawke continued. “I don’t know what that means, for your kind. I hope wherever you are, you can hear me, because otherwise I’m just rambling to myself—again.”

She looked back at the mirror and laughed quietly. “You know, I was once offered advice from another old woman, practically in this very spot. But I think yours ended up being far more helpful than hers ever did. And if nothing else, _that’s_ what I’d like to take back to the real world with me.”

Her hand disrupted the mirror’s surface, and she turned back one more time, searching the crowd as if for a familiar face.

Then she stepped through the Eluvian and was gone.

\--

Wynne watched her friend disappear, and something deep within her released with a soft sigh. The spirit, which had been her companion; her guide; her anchor for so many years, began to slip away. She felt its confusion and panic as it remembered what it had been before it had been her.

 _It’s all right,_ she reassured it. _I’ve had my second chance. It’s about time you had yours._

The elven words still hung in the sky. _They could use a little something more,_ Wynne thought.

With the last remaining spark of her will, she set them ablaze.


End file.
